


Zero at the Bone

by Miracule



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Early Queen (Band), I added another chapter bc I just couldn't leave it alone, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, It's all love, Love, M/M, if you're wondering 'have I seen this fic before' yes you have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: They took to each other instantly, Taylor and Bulsara. Roger never really understood why. They just did. Just one of those things, really.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I take what little facts I do know and wing the rest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been thinking about this story a lot, thinking about how I might be able to give it a little more closure. I never felt totally done with it, so I've added a second chapter. This chapter remains untouched and is the same one-shot that you may have already read.

They make quite the pair at parties, Roger and Freddie.

Roger likes the music; the way the bass rumbles in his chest. He likes drinking, being out of his head. Freddie likes the anonymity of it all. The heat of the crowd, the unconditional love. But it’s all fine in Roger’s book. They’re bound by the chaos and the frenetic energy of it all. The out-of-body high.

 _Taylor and Bulsara._ Where one is, the other is sure the follow. They’re practically inseparable. He’s been asked, “where’s Fred?” by total strangers, and the answer is almost always the same: _he’s around here somewhere!_

Brian is, _well_ , a different story, which is why Roger is surprised when he offers to accompany them to a little spot called the Mill on Thursday night. Technically, the Mill is a music venue, but everyone knows that’s where you go to get completely wasted.

“Tim’s asked me to meet him,” Brian explains. “There’s this band that he likes—the Whores.”

“Sorry, the _who_?”

“The Whores,” he mutters, earning a snicker from Freddie.

Actually, Brian _does_ deserve an honorable mention here.

If you can get a couple of gin and tonics into the man, he turns into a pretty cool cucumber—totally loose and up for just about anything. He likes to claim that he doesn’t dance, but Roger’s seen him break out some moves when the stars align. It always sets Freddie off, watching Brian sway and shake his hips to some nasty little beat, and this time is no different. 

“Oh my god,” Freddie cackles, “he’s feeling it, Rog. He’s _feeling_ it!”

Roger snorts, and the two cling together, stifling their laughter into their drinks. It’s not really that funny, he thinks. It’s just that when Freddie gets going, he can’t help but laugh along, especially when he’s had a few.

Or a few too many.

As they pull apart, Roger feels a little lightheaded; like he’s just stood up too quickly after a long nap. He waits for it to pass, and while it does mostly subside, it lingers well past its welcome.

It’s not a _totally_ alarming feeling.

Sometimes, these things happen. Once in a while, one of them will drink a little too much too quickly and have to go sit at the bar, sipping at a glass of tepid water while the other parties on. 

Tonight, that’s what Roger imagines he’ll have to do. _One too many, that’s it._

He’s had one, two, three... Four? _Is this four?_

Four is a bit much.

Roger tugs at Freddie’s sleeve. “I’m going to pop outside for a bit. I need a breather.” The Whores are just blaring along, making Roger have to practically shout in Freddie’s ear.

“Oh, are you sure? You’ll leave me all alone?” Freddie takes a long sip of a girly-looking drink and cocks his head to the side.

Rogers waves him away. “I'm just going to tell Brian.”

Freddie laughs. “Do keep an eye on that one. Don’t let him get up to anything he can’t handle.”

Roger just nods as a wave of nausea hits him like a freight train. 

Oh, shit. _Shit._

When Freddie turns away, Roger almost tugs him back, almost admits that _actually_ , _I think I might have overdone it. Can you come sit with me?_

But he’ll find Brian as quickly as he can, just to tell him where he is. Just in case. But _Christ almighty_ , that’s a lot of bodies to get through. Roger steels himself against a cold, prickly sort of dread and begins to elbow his way toward Brian’s unmistakably gangly figure.

“Oi,” he shouts, “you okay?” 

“Yeah!” Brian shouts back, clapping him on the back. “How are you?”

“God, I dunno, I feel a bit sick, honestly.”

Brian leans down and inclines his head.

“I said, _I feel a bit sick.”_

“Oh!” Brian pulls back, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t fuss, I’m fine. I’m popping outside.”

“Are you sure?” Brian squints at him through the dark, always ready to play mother hen. 

“Oh, yeah,” Roger replies, nodding sagely.

But Roger isn’t sure. It’s all very up in the air. He’s drank too much before, or too much too quickly, but somehow it never gets any easier. All he knows is that he feels really, really awful here. He needs fresh air _now_.

 

 

He does feel better outside—marginally. It isn’t exactly a party out here, but there are a few girls and boys lying about, smoking various types of cigarettes in the chilly night air. There’s a little bench in the corner that’s still empty, and Roger eases himself into it as carefully as he can, placing his unfinished drink on the floor beside him.

_Well, this is shit._

So much for Thursday night.

Roger pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders. It’s an embroidered little number he picked up at the Kensington market last week, but it doesn’t offer much in the way of comfort. He’s trembling like one of the girls in their tiny corduroy skirts.

The discomfort of the cold does give him something to focus on, at least. The air rushes into his lungs and chills him from the inside out, but at least he’s breathing easier than before.

He sits there—eyes screwed shut against the world—for maybe ten minutes or so. He can feel the time creeping by, but it’s preferable to rushing back into the packed and dank little place, the very thought of which makes his stomach churn. He isn’t sure if he can handle the smell of the ale-sprinkled floors and the sticky heat of all those bodies.

“Rog? You all right?” 

_Fred! Fancy meeting you here! How’ve you been?_

“I dunno. I think I drank too much, honestly.”

“Well, how much have you had?”

“Eh, four?”

“Oh, well, that might be it. When was the last time you ate?”

“I had some of your chips at lunch, remember?”

“Okay, well, that’s not really _eating_ , is it? Anyway,” Freddie sighs, sinking onto the bench next to him, “you need to eat properly!”

They sit shoulder to shoulder for a moment before Freddie turns to him again. “Rog, you’re shaking like mad.”

“Am I?” He tries to act as if he didn’t notice, but of course it must look fairly obvious—he’s practically vibrating.

“Wanna go home?”

He looks back toward the Mill; listens to the people chatting noisily around them and to the muffled music drifting through the air.

Freddie doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Oh, come on, you look like proper shite. I’ll get you home.”

“You don’t have to go, though!” Roger protests as Fred slips an arm around his and hoists him up.

“What? Don’t be silly. What if you fainted into those bushes and we couldn’t find you?”

“Fred, really, I’m fine to walk—”

“Oh, stop fussing,” Freddie snaps, tugging him closer. “Let me help you.”

Well, once Freddie takes hold, there’s really no getting rid of him, and they begin to plod along toward home. Freddie’s arm loosens around his, but they remain neatly intertwined. Freddie practically radiates heat, even though he isn’t wearing anything over his thin linen shirt. It feels nice, Roger thinks, being close to him. It's a stupid, girlish thought, but it's true. Roger hasn't had this sort of easy, affectionate relationship with another man before.

There's Brian, of course, but even then—

Oh, _fuck._

“Shouldn’t we get Brian?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. I saw him with a girl.” Freddie grins. “He was _rapt_.”

“Poor bastard,” Roger mutters.

“It’s as if—it’s as if he’s _never_ spoken to a girl before. He gets all woozy, like, oh, bollocks, what if she wants my number? Whatever will I do?” Freddie mimics Brian’s soft, worried tone. “Oh, Fred, she’s so beautiful, she’s stunning, I think I love her.”

Roger smiles at that. “D’you reckon he’s a virgin?” he wonders aloud. 

He’s always thought so, despite the fact that Brian is quite good-looking in his own right. Girls notice him, but very few actually make it into his inner circle.

“Oh, definitely. But that’s all right. When he’s ready, he’ll be well-prepared from reading so many books about sex.”

“Huh.” Roger ponders that for a moment. “What was your first time like?”

_Oh, that was terrible._

That’s the three and a half drinks talking. Who asks a friend a question like _that_?

“Oh, I don’t know,” Freddie murmurs. “Let’s not dig that up.”

 

 

By the time they reach the front door of the flat, Roger does feel a bit better. Not great, but better.

“Wanna come in?” he asks Freddie as he unlocks the door. “It’s freezing out here.”

As their unofficial flatmate, Freddie doesn’t need to be asked twice.

“Well,” he begins, rubbing his hands together, “I do have a little piece I wrote for the keyboard. I’d like to show you.”

“Do you mind if I shower first, actually?” Roger asks, haltingly, only because the smell of the booze and smoke sticking to his clothes is making him queasy.

“Of course not, just... Call if you need me, will you?”

“I shouldn’t,” Roger replies. He hopes he won’t, anyway. He may be a bit dizzy but that’s never stopped him before.

“Brian has the keyboard, yeah?” Freddie calls from the hallway.

“Go mad,” says Roger, and Freddie lets himself into Brian's room without a moment's hesitation.

 

 

Before he even realizes it, Roger’s used nearly all of the hot water. He’s been in the shower for far longer than he anticipated, and wonders if Freddie might have gotten bored and gone home. Freddie hates being left alone, after all, and Roger wouldn’t blame him. He’s not exactly interesting company tonight.

When he does eventually emerge from the bathroom, he peers around, half expecting the flat to be empty. But it isn’t—Freddie is in the kitchen, standing over the toaster, drumming lightly on the counter.

“Still here?”

“ _You_ invited me, didn’t you?”

“No, I just—I thought you might’ve gotten bored.”

Freddie turns and shoots him a wounded look. “Where else would I go, anyway? It’s not as if my book is full, Rog.”

“Fine. What are you doing, then?”

“Making you toast! You two don’t keep much around the house, do you?”

“We’re watching our figures. Anyway, what d’you mean, toast?” Roger sinks into the couch with a sigh. It’s an old hand-me-down from Brian’s mum, and it dips incredibly low in the middle. But at least it’s comfortable.

“I mean, _toast_.”

“I didn’t order any toast.”

“Listen, you’re going to eat this shit. Get your blood sugar up.”

“All right, mum.”

The toaster dings—a silly little noise—and moments later, there’s a plate of hot buttered toast being thrust into his face.

“Now! Let me play this thing for you. Tell me what you think.”

Freddie crashes down next to him and the couch sinks even further under their combined weight, thrusting them up against each other. But Freddie doesn’t seem to mind, and neither does Roger, so that’s how they sit, huddled over the keyboard, knees brushing.

 

 

Dutifully, Roger nibbles at bits of toast as Freddie plays. It’s not all bad. At this point, most of the discomfort and dizziness has died down and given way to exhaustion and a distant, almost pleasant buzzing sensation. 

“Rog, are you all right?” Freddie's voice breaks him out of his daze, and he realizes that he hasn't said anything in ages.

“Fine,” Roger murmurs, rubbing at his eyes. “Better, honestly. Just tired. Sorry.”

Freddie shifts to wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him closer with a gentle tug. It’s not strange for Freddie to hug him like this, and Roger doesn’t mind—in fact, he quite likes it. He’s not a naturally touchy person, but from Freddie... It’s different. It's never too close.

Roger leans into the touch, dropping his forehead against Fred’s narrow shoulder.

This is all right, isn’t it? 

Freddie continues playing around with his tune. 

Time passes.

They’ve been like this for a while now, flush up against each other, limbs going to sleep in awkward positions. Roger isn’t exactly sure when it starts to dawn on him that it’s been a little _too_ long—that is, too long to pass off as friendly.

But dawn it does.

His heart skips a beat, then bounces back hard.

Roger is suddenly very aware of his own breathing. _In and out, Rog. In and out_. He shivers—nothing to do with the cold—and Freddie, maybe misunderstanding, rubs his back as if to warm him.

He should break this off before it goes anywhere. 

He _could_.

Roger could stand up right now and it would be over and done with. He could move away, pull his head back, angle himself in the other direction. So why doesn’t he? 

Has he been playing along the whole time?

Yes. Yes, he thinks so.

He and Freddie have orchestrated this moment—all the way up to its fearful, faltering coda.

And now he has no idea how he’s meant to finish it.

He imagines that Freddie might know better.

 _Maybe_.

Gingerly, Freddie begins to touch him. Not just hold him, but touch him. He traces a line down Roger's throat, across his collar. Tucks some hair behind his ear. Every movement is so _fucking_ careful that Roger wonders if Freddie really does have any experience with men.

 _Experience with men._ Jesus, this is really happening, isn’t it?

He hasn’t felt like this since he was seventeen, naked and trembling in front of a girl he fancied so badly that it felt like a fever dream just to be in the same room as her.

But Freddie isn’t a girl, not in the slightest.

What the _fuck_ has he gotten himself into?

“You’re shaking,” Freddie murmurs, somewhere above his head.

“Sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

He never gets to answer.

There’s a few distant footfalls. A beat. The jiggling of a key in a lock.

Brian’s gentle little singing voice.

They separate quickly and efficiently. There’s nothing else they can do.

_All finished._

“Hey, man, how’re you feeling?” Brian appears in the doorway, poking his curly head into the sitting room. “Lucy said you looked pretty down and out." 

“Yeah,” Roger croaks. “Yeah. I’m all right. 

“I didn’t think you drank _that_ much.” 

“You know Roger,” Fred pipes in, quietly. “He has a heavy hand.”

“You staying for the night, Fred?” Brian asks, stifling a yawn behind his hand. “Might as well." 

Freddie glances at Roger, who glances at Brian. The big man’s clearly been having a good time. His hair is damp with sweat and his face is flushed pink. He looks happy.

“Yeah, if you two don’t mind,” Freddie says. “Thanks for the offer.”

“You know this one loves having you. You’re practically attached at the hip, you two.”

“You are in a good mood, aren’t you, Bri?” Freddie teases, easing into the conversation. “Did you hit it off with that Lucy?”

“God, should I tell you?” Brian leans his head against the doorframe, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Of course! Darling, you know I love a story!" 

Fred nudges him, and he and Roger make room on the couch for Brian to squeeze in.

 

 

Much later in the evening—rather, in the morning, at some ungodly hour when Brian has finally shuffled off to bed—Freddie pulls Roger aside. For the briefest of moments, he expects Freddie to kiss him. The coda.

“I’m sorry,” Freddie says instead. There’s real fear in his voice, and at first, Roger can’t quite understand why.

“Sorry?” Roger echoes.

“Did I misread everything?" 

“Fred, I... No.” That’s all that comes out. Just _no_. It’s not as if he doesn’t have more to say, but condensing his thoughts into a coherent sentence would take hours.

There’s a moment of silence. Freddie clears his throat. “Go to bed, Roger. We’ve kept you up far too long.”

“Goodnight,” Roger offers. It’s the most he can manage at the moment.

“Night.”

And that’s that.

 _Bravo_.

Roger crawls into bed, more exhausted than he’s ever been in his life, but sleep does not come easy.

 

 

The next morning, Freddie is gone by the time Roger scurries into the sitting room to look for him. Brian is there, though, sitting curled on the couch, jotting notes into the margins of a physics textbook.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“Fred left early. Did you two have a row? You were dead quiet last night.”

Roger thinks about that for a moment.

“No. I was still feeling a bit queasy.”

“Oh. It felt a bit heavy in here, that’s all.” Brian looks up at him, impassive. God, how does he _always_ sniff him out? Brian’s like a bloodhound when it comes to Roger. 

Roger shrugs. “I’m feeling better this morning, thanks for asking.” 

“Anyway,” Brian sighs, “I was gonna go shopping. Wanna come?”

“Fine by me.”

Roger stalks back into his room, having no idea how to manage the swell of heat rising in his chest. Freddie confuses him utterly, shakes up his insides. He feels pulled apart—so much so that he barely notices a little piece of paper pushed just inside the doorway.

It’s folded into a little square, and inside is Freddie’s delicate handwriting:

_Roger—Can we be friends please?_

He turns the note around. There’s nothing else. Just— _Can we be friends please?_

He places the note on his dresser. It hadn’t even occurred to him that not being friends was a possibility. He loves Freddie. _Yeah_. Loves him. The word is the only one that can do it justice, what he feels.

If Freddie had asked instead to be more than friends, Roger would have considered it. He would’ve seriously dug deep inside himself to find the answer, and it probably would’ve been yes. Freddie commands a space in Roger’s head that no man has ever done before.

It’s not that he’s homosexual, he thinks.

It’s just Freddie.

It would shake him if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Freddie.

Before last night, wasn’t it all just a bit of fun? A bit of flirting, playing around. Testing the waters.

But that isn’t quite true, is it?

He glances at the note again.

Yes, of course they can be friends. After all, a rose by any other name.

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall into place.

Roger jolts awake, and almost immediately thinks of Freddie. It’s not even been thirty seconds since he opened his eyes, and already he’s thinking about _Freddie_. He groans and buries his face into his pillow.

As if that weren’t enough, his jaw is aching, letting him know that he was grinding his teeth. He should have grown out of that ages ago. He thought he _had_. It’s a bit ironic—a former dental student grinding his teeth. Shouldn’t his body know better?

He lifts his head to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 8:30. A quick glance out the window tells him that it’s a cool, damp morning, perfect for sleeping in. But Brian is already up. Roger can hear him tinkering around in the kitchen. It’s not very unusual; since he has to get up so early for work, he often has trouble sleeping past eight, even on weekends.

Roger decides to join him. It’s not as if he can go back to sleep now, thinking about _the almost-kiss_. He swings his legs over the bed, blearily examining the pale blond fuzz that covers his thighs.

Freddie, he recalls, previously described his lackluster body hair as _downy_.

 _You shouldn't complain_ , he said as they sat at their market stall, picking out clothes to try on for a laugh. _I feel like I've got the opposite problem. Too _much_ hair. _He lifted his shirt to display his chest, which was covered in a layer of thick, dark hair—the likes of which Roger had never seen before, save for when it poked out of Freddie’s t-shirts.

Roger was impressed, really. It made Freddie look fierce. _Your hair is way cooler,_ he insisted, earning a twinkling smile from his friend. _I’ve got no chest hair at all. I’ve got like,_ one _. One single hair!_

 _Oh, stop it_ , Freddie said, _you’re handsome without it. Like a classical sculpture!_ _They didn’t have chest hair, either!_ Roger had burst out laughing, totally incredulous. His awkward, gangly body certainly did not resemble any sort of artwork. _I dunno,_ he laughed, _they’ve all got tiny cocks. I hope I haven’t!_

Freddie snorted. _I’m sure you’ve got a wonderful cock._

It was boyish banter at its finest, wasn’t it? Not anything untoward. But Roger knew it was a bit cheeky, even back then. He didn’t talk about cocks with any of his other friends. And he certainly didn’t get undressed in the back of a market stall, giggling and pulling on vintage shawls and dresses, with just _anybody_. No, that was just Taylor and Bulsara, totally at ease in each other’s company. Totally at home.

“You’re up early,” Brian remarks as Roger plods into the kitchen, wrapped up in his cocoon of a dressing gown.

“Yeah,” Roger sighs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No,” Roger mutters, sinking into the couch. It dips down in the center, just like it did the other night. It does that _every_ night, he reminds himself.

“Bri, we need to get a new couch.”

“Why?” Brian asks, not looking up from his tea. “It’s fine!”

“It can’t support me anymore.”

“It’s supporting you now,” Brian turns to him, gesturing with his mug in his hand. “It’s just a bit... wonky, that’s all! All three of us were just on it!”

“And now it’s given up the ghost! I swear, it’s worse than before.”

“Rog,” Brian snaps, clearly in no mood for bickering. “The couch stays.”

Roger looks at him more closely. Brian’s face is drawn, and the circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever. It’s not as if he usually gets a lot of sleep, but it’s obvious that he’s exhausted.

“Why are _you_ up?” Roger asks, curious. “No need, it’s Sunday.”

Brian’s expression shifts. “Well,” he smiles, suddenly very pleased, “Remember Chrissie?”

“Of course.”

“Well, she rang the other day. Wants to go out for lunch. I nearly forgot about it, actually.”

“What about, erm...”

“From last night?”

“Yeah, her.”

Brian sighs. “Lucy. I dunno. She was really nice. We did a few things and it was, well, I mean, it was good.”

Roger sits up, interested. “You did things?”

“Yeah.”

“ _You_?”

“Yeah!”

“Like what? A bit of snogging? A bit of fingering? There’s a big difference, Bri.”

Brian’s gone red, which Roger finds incredibly satisfying. “Snogging,” he mutters. “Not... the other one.”

“Ah, right,” Roger joins him at the kitchen counter to make himself tea. “So it’s nothing _too_ serious.”

“Well, I like her, but, Chrissie is really cool,” Brian says, glowing in the way that people do when they’re a little bit in love. “If it works out today, I think I’ll just tell Lucy I’m seeing someone.”

“Don’t jump the gun, mate!” Roger warns. “You wanna be sure about these things. It’s okay to have a cushion to fall back on if Chrissie doesn’t work out.”

Brian mulls that over, brow furrowed. It’s like watching a baby deer learning to walk.

Roger chuckles and shakes his head. “You know what? Don’t listen to me. You’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ve got a stable partner either.”

Brian scoffs. “Do you _want_ a stable partner?”

“Well, no,” Roger admits. “Not really. Anyway, lunch? That’s in what, four hours? You could’ve slept in.”

Brian grimaces. “I woke up thinking about it. Couldn’t go back to sleep.”

Roger nods, understanding perfectly well.

 

 

 

Before Brian leaves for his date, Roger gives him a final onceover. They’ve chosen an outfit together, mostly because Roger was looking for something to occupy him. It did work as a distraction, dressing Brian up like a little doll. Roger even lent him one of his nice fashionable jumpers for the occasion. It’s a little short on Brian, but it doesn’t look half bad. Brian is handsome enough that almost anything looks quite good on him. Roger doesn’t tell him that, of course. He wouldn’t want it going to Brian’s head.

But when Brian leaves, Roger is left alone once more with his thoughts, which invariably feature Freddie. It’s incredible, really, how short-sighted Roger’s been. The signs were all there—little touches, half-smiles, flirty jokes. Roger had just absorbed them, reflected them. It was just Freddie, he always thought, even when he knew full well that he wouldn’t dare behave that way with other men. But Freddie isn’t a _man_ , he’s just Freddie! Yeah, he’s got a cock and a flat, hairy chest and a strong jaw, but he really isn’t very masculine at all. It makes sense that he’s queer. Roger’s known that all along, even if he never came out and admitted it.

It’s _himself_ that he’s not sure about.

He’s not very masculine either, he thinks, examining himself in the bathroom mirror after his shower. He’s always been told he has a pretty face—mostly by his aunty and his mum. _The girls will love you_ , they said. Boys too, it turned out. They hadn’t warned him about that possibility, but Roger quickly learned on his own. Boarding school was just like that. He didn’t mind it, the attention. He got used to boys making passes at him, but he usually just brushed them off without a second thought.

So why Freddie?

It’s a bit mind-boggling, really. They’re so different, but they fit together like lock and key. They breathe on the same beat, think on the same wavelength. It’s love, really, as loath as he is to use such a strong word. It’s just love.

And he’s scared that he’s somehow fucked it up.

The idea that Freddie might not want to be around him anymore is, frankly, terrifying. It’s what had him grinding his teeth last night, Roger is sure of it.

It was just a bit of petting, he tells himself. A bit of cuddling. Doesn’t mean shit.

Doesn’t mean you really fancy each other.

He touches where he recalls Freddie touching him—down his jaw, across his collar... _Shit_. It sparks a familiar sort of warmth, the idea of Freddie’s hands on him, asking for permission.

Roger had been ready and willing to give it. He would’ve. Still would, to be honest. Out of _curiosity_ , he tells himself, firmly.

He’s not keen.

He doesn’t fancy Fred. Or if he does, it’s only a fleeting fancy. Just a bit of fluff gone to his brain, making him temporarily insane.

Freddie calls later that afternoon, asking if Roger got his note from the day before. His voice is uncharacteristically subdued, even when Roger confirms that yes, he did, and no, Freddie does not have to apologize or worry about a thing.

“Nothing happened,” Roger confirms, chewing on his bottom lip. “Of course we’re still mates.”

Freddie seems relieved, and Roger hears him sigh at the other end of the line. “Right. Of course.”

They leave off a bit awkwardly, Roger wanting to say more but not knowing how to begin, or how to finish, or what to say in the middle. In a way, he doesn’t actually have anything else to say. He’s already said it. He’s just not sure if Freddie believes it.

 

 

 

They meet that night at rehearsal. Somehow, it’s both too soon and not soon enough. Roger is practically shaking as he walks through the door, but he’s relieved to see that Freddie is already there. At least he doesn’t have to wait around worrying.

“Hi, Fred.”

“Hiya,” Freddie replies, giving him a pale smile.

Throughout practice, Freddie remains subdued, whereas Roger is more than ready to beat the shit out of his drums. He’s been anxious all day, wondering how Freddie is going to feel around him, and he’s itching to do something, _anything_ , with the nervous energy that’s built up in his chest.

Freddie is infuriatingly cool. To be honest, Roger thinks it should be the other way around. Freddie is the one who left him the damn note—the one who—

“ _Roger_ ,” Brian snaps, his tone bringing Roger to attention. “Hello, mate? You okay?”

Roger blinks. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“You wanna start?”

“Erm,” Roger swallows, flustered, “which one?”

Brian raises his eyebrows. “Oh, good. You’ve not been listening _at all_.”

Roger sputters, but he can't argue with that. Brian’s right. He’s been completely zoned out, mostly because he’s been too busy watching Freddie, trying to suss out what he’s thinking. Of course, he hasn’t had any success whatsoever. He still has no fucking clue what’s going on in that dark head. And now he has to endure a lecture from the most sanctimonious man in the world? It’s really too much to bear.

“I’m just not feeling really well,” he lies. Well, it is _true_ , in a way. He puts on a pained expression that he hopes will evoke some pity from Brian. It seems to work, and Brian sighs a little, defeated.

“Sorry. I guess I’m a bit tired myself. I didn’t mean to snap.” Brian rests his hands on his guitar and takes a seat on the stool by Roger’s drum kit.

“It’s okay. I think we’re all knackered from Friday.” Roger gives his flat mate a sad smile. _Play it up, Taylor_.

“Maybe we should end early,” Freddie offers. He catches Roger’s gaze and immediately looks at Brian instead. Well, _shit._

Barry, their new bassist, shrugs. “Either way is fine by me. Up to you lads.”

Freddie nods. “I think we should. It’s no use if we’re not up to it.”

Roger hardly dares to breathe as they pack up their things. Brian’s muttering something to him about going to bed early, but Roger’s not really listening. He’s busy trying to think of what to say to Freddie when they have a moment alone. Freddie is again on Roger’s wavelength, because he shoos Brian and Barry away, promising to catch up with them later. Roger lags behind on purpose, and Freddie says nothing.

“Well?” Roger presses, when they’ve finally found themselves alone in the room. "Are you okay?"

_It doesn’t have to mean anything._

But it _could_.

Freddie pulls on his jacket, gives Roger a long, anxious look. “Fine. Fancy a drink?” he asks, finally.

“Yeah,” Roger says, even though he doesn’t. “Yours?”

Fred nods. “Mary’s away. We can talk,” he adds quickly, as if to assure Roger that talking is what he had in mind. 

“Yeah,” Roger agrees, keeping his distance as Fred leads the way to the bus stop.

The ride is uncomfortable, to say the least, probably because neither of them know what to expect at the end of it. If Freddie were a girl, Roger thinks, panicking, they would've had sex a long time ago. But he isn't a girl. He's Freddie. Play it by ear, Roger tells himself, over and over. It’s okay. Just play it by ear. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s just a drink, with Freddie, his friend. Fucking _Freddie_. 

When they finally reach their stop, Freddie thanks the driver hops down onto the sidewalk, taking a deep breath of fresh air. It’s chilly, but not unpleasantly so. Roger just looks at him, mute, suddenly feeling very small. He’s over his head with Freddie. They may be best mates, but he feels for a moment as if he hardly knows the young man standing in front of him. He just has no idea what Freddie wants, and it’s agonizing to not be able to read it in his body, like he usually can with girls. 

They walk in silence for a bit until Freddie asks him, quietly, “What’s new?”

“Well,” Roger mutters, fishing around for something decent. “Brian went on a date. Did he tell you?”

Freddie perks up. “No. With who? That girl he met?”

“No, Chrissie. The one going to Maria Assumpta.”

“Oh god,” Freddie breathes, “a Catholic?”

Roger snickers, and Freddie shakes his head. “Let’s pray for him, Roger.”

When they finally make it into Freddie’s apartment, Roger is starting to shiver. He’s only brought his light jacket again, and Freddie has already chastised him for it in the street. He gets on him again when they reach the flat. 

“Look at you,” he sighs, “your nose is all red.”

“Oh,” Roger sniffs, wiping at a bit of snot with his sleeve. “Yeah, it is a bit cold.”

“Well,” Freddie sheds his jumper and claps his hands together. “What’ll you have? A nice drink’ll warm you up.”

He seems more comfortable now, which makes Roger feel better as well. It’s almost normal, this. He can work with this. Freddie doesn’t seem to mind his company, which is really all that matters.

“Just a spot of gin, good man,” Roger replies, affecting a posh accent.

“Of course, sir,” Freddie plays along, smiling. “Coming right up.”

Just having a drink in his hand makes things easier. It makes him safe in the knowledge that he can drink away whatever anxiety has settled into his chest. And Lord, is there anxiety.

He take a sip and lets the bittersweet flavor roll over his tongue. Freddie follows suit before resting the glass on his knee. He watches Roger take another swallow, more serious than before.

“So,” he begins, wiping some condensation from his glass. “About that night.”

Roger licks his lips. “Mm.”

“I wasn’t being fair.”

Roger frowns, but Freddie presses on. “You should’ve told me off.”

“For _what_?”

“You were drunk,” Freddie groans, dismay creeping into his voice, “and I was trying to fucking kiss you.”

“I mean, I knew that,” Roger mutters under his breath. “Jesus, I know I drank a bit too much, but I know when someone wants to kiss me.”

“If Brian hadn’t walked in,” Freddie continues, “I think I would’ve.”

It’s so quiet that Roger can suddenly hear the clock ticking in the room next door.

“Yeah,” Roger shrugs. “I know.”

Freddie finishes off his drink in one swift motion, and neither of them say a word. There’s a very particular question hanging in the air, but neither of them are quite willing to be the one to broach it. It feels too big—too risky. 

“Another?” Freddie asks, tapping his glass.

“Sure, thanks.” Roger drinks the remaining gin and hands it to Freddie. He sits with his hands in his lap as Freddie takes the glasses into the kitchen and sets them gently on the counter. Roger hears him going into the cabinets, and then nothing.

He takes a breath and stands up, picks his way around the couch. He meets Freddie in the kitchen, and Freddie watches him out of the corner of his eye as he pours the drinks. He hands Roger his glass. “Here you are, darling,” he says, his eyes scanning quickly over Roger’s face.

Roger inches forward, and Freddie doesn’t move, save for a little stiffening of his shoulders. Roger inclines his head a bit, and still Freddie doesn’t pull back. All right, then. That’s his question answered. 

Roger leans forward and kisses him flush on the lips.

Freddie jerks a little, maybe taken aback, but he quickly leans into it, parting his lips to mirror Roger’s. It’s really quite something. It’s a bit messy, a bit awkward—it is his best mate he’s kissing—but it makes Roger’s heart beat so fast he thinks it might give out on him.

He pulls back to examine Freddie’s face. Freddie blinks up at him, a tiny smile playing on his lips, which are noticeably more pink. “Am I your first?” he asks.

Roger huffs, feeling a little dizzy with the reality of what they’ve just done. “No,” he teases. “I’ve had loads of girlfriends." 

Freddie slaps him gently on the cheek and lets his hand linger, cool against Roger’s flushed skin. “Your first who isn’t a _girl_ , I mean.”

Roger squirms a little, not quite liking the idea of being the novice in this sort of situation. “Yeah,” he admits, “but it’s not that different, is it?”

Freddie pinches his cheek, smiles. “You’re sweet,” he sighs. “No wonder they all love you.”

This time it’s Freddie who kisses him, holding Roger’s jaw and angling his head however he fancies. His kiss is deeper, aggressive—it takes Roger by surprise as he adjusts to Freddie’s rhythm and the feeling of Freddie’s fingernails digging into his skin.

They end up stumbling back into the sitting room, Freddie pulling him along between kisses. It’s all so immediate and overwhelming that Roger tries to pull himself out of it for a moment by reaching for his drink. He takes a long swallow, the gin going down much, much easier than before, letting him know that he’s already quite tipsy.

Freddie collapses on the couch and watches him curiously, breathing hard. He laughs suddenly, covering his mouth with his free hand as he tries to smother it.

“What?” Roger whines, tugging on his wrist. “What’s so funny?” He can’t help but grin at the sight of Freddie trembling with laughter, but he hopes it’s not because he’s just that terrible at kissing.

“You just look so—” Freddie searches around for a word, still breathless with laughter, “flustered!” He takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “Are you all right?”

Roger considers the question. He’s out of breath, he’s dizzy, he’s aroused—certainly nothing he isn't used to. But somehow, the idea of going any further than this—he briefly contemplates how it might feel to fumble with Freddie’s trousers—makes his chest feel uncomfortably tight. He’s tried not to think too hard about it, about where this will eventually lead, but now that they’ve stopped the train in its tracks, he tries to fathom it and it frightens him. 

“Yeah,” he nods, sighing shakily. “I’m fine. Just—”

“We can stop,” Freddie tells him, motioning for him to sit. 

Roger sinks down next to him. “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, do you want me to—?” He lets go of Roger’s hand and squeezes his inner thigh instead. Roger jumps a little at the touch. He really doesn’t know. He wants to, and then he doesn’t. It’s a big leap from kissing. Kissing is innocent enough, but sex is something else entirely. 

“Um, I—” He shrinks a little under Freddie’s gaze, wondering if Freddie will be disappointed in him. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, feeling absurd.

Freddie shushes him, gives him a little shake. “Don’t do that. There's nothing to be sorry for. There’s always next time, if you fancy it. Here, come here.”

He slips his arm through Roger’s and leans against his shoulder, his dark hair falling against Roger’s collar. Roger just stares down at him. The adrenaline is ebbing out of him, slowly. He feels buzzed and exhausted all at once. Kissing Freddie was far more than he bargained for. It felt like having his head up in the sky, exhilarating and terrifying. But it also felt like coming back to Earth—reentry. _Home_.

“This doesn’t have to be anything,” Freddie murmurs into his shoulder. “I don’t want you to go all weird and stop calling me, all right, Taylor?”

“I wouldn’t,” Roger assures him, truthfully. “It’s just a bit of fun, right?”

“Right,” Freddie agrees, although Roger has a sinking feeling that neither of them really bought that. _Just a bit of fun_ is what he has with girls he meets at gigs. _Just a bit of fun_ doesn't make him feel like he's in over his head. 

Still, that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, he has Freddie humming tunelessly beside him, radiating warmth. Roger’s mind wanders. He thinks back to spending chilly, dreary Saturday afternoons with Freddie at their market stall.

They would sit, huddled together, drinking Cokes and chatting about the sort of things that interest young men. And then Freddie would toss his head back and laugh, or sing a few lines, or do something— _anything_ —and Roger would just stare, rapt. Freddie made him soft, self-conscious. Freddie made him glow.

They took to each other instantly—Taylor and Bulsara. Roger never really understood why. They just did. Just one of those things, really. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd I love my soft boys thanks for coming to my TED talk

**Author's Note:**

> A narrow Fellow in the Grass  
> Occasionally rides -  
> You may have met him? Did you not  
> His notice instant is -
> 
> The Grass divides as with a Comb,  
> A spotted Shaft is seen,  
> And then it closes at your Feet  
> And opens further on -
> 
> He likes a Boggy Acre -  
> A Floor too cool for Corn -  
> But when a Boy and Barefoot  
> I more than once at Noon
> 
> Have passed I thought a Whip Lash  
> Unbraiding in the Sun  
> When stooping to secure it  
> It wrinkled And was gone -
> 
> Several of Nature’s People  
> I know, and they know me  
> I feel for them a transport  
> Of Cordiality
> 
> But never met this Fellow  
> Attended or alone  
> Without a tighter Breathing  
> And Zero at the Bone.
> 
> (Emily Dickinson, approx. 1865)


End file.
